


One Month (30 Prompt Challenge)

by Eltuine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 prompts, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eltuine/pseuds/Eltuine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been reading some 30 day OTP challenges and the like, and while I am not actually participating in any challenges that I know about, I was inspired. Once a day, for thirty days, I'll use a random prompt generator, and then write a chapter. Together, they will form a complete story of John and Sherlock, post-Reichenbach. This might get weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hope (Day 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt the first: Hope
> 
> John gets a visit from someone who he has not seen in a long time.

John was tired. He was tired of his flat, he was tired of London, he was tired of life. Every morning that he awoke in the same bed, in the same room, it felt like his bed had its own gravitational field. Most mornings he managed to push past it, to break free from orbit and get on with his day, but some days - days like today - he just couldn't work up enough energy. It seemed rather pointless. Why bother getting out of bed? He didn't have anything to do. He was living off of his army pension and the occasional bit of locum work that the clinic provided him with, and he hadn't been called in for over two weeks. What was the point of getting out of bed if all he was going to do was get back in it in fourteen hours or so?

He knew that he was depressed. He didn't need a counsellor to tell him that. Ella, in their final appointment three months ago, had told him that he needed to find purpose. He'd told her that he wasn't going to be coming back for any more sessions. He'd had enough of being told to talk about things and come up with ideas for things that he could do. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to sleep for ten hours a day, and watch mindless telly, and not have to shower every day. He really wanted a mad detective to chase around at ridiculous hours while trying to avoid getting shot. Option three was obviously out, so he stuck with one and two.

He couldn't believe that it had only been a year and a half since Sherlock had - since the roof. Everything seemed to drag, and time felt as sluggish as he did. Harry had finally stopped trying to get him to move in with her after the third month. Greg still popped by occasionally to try and drag him to a pub or dinner, but even he had started coming less and less, probably tired of being politely rebuffed over and over. Mycroft had been to see him all of twice since he'd moved out of Baker street - once to get him to sign some paperwork, and then again to check on him on the one year anniversary of the event. John had given the man his gun on this second visit. He'd explained that it was illegal, and he no longer had use for it, and Mycroft had nodded silently and tucked it away. Neither man had needed to acknowledge the real reason to be rid of the firearm. 

John was roused from his reverie by someone knocking at the door to the flat. Who was knocking so early in the - oh. A glance at the clock revealed it to be almost one in the afternoon. He sighed, and rolled out of bed, pulling on his dressing gown as he went to answer the door. Whoever he may have thought could be coming by, it certainly wasn't who he opened the door to see.

"Molly?" She was standing there in the hallway, looking uncomfortable and sad. John tried to ignore the pity in her eyes. He was so sick of pity.

"Hi John," she said softly, "I'm sorry to drop by unannounced. I know it's really rude of me, but I just..." She trailed off, and John took pity on her.

"It's okay. Come on in. I'll get some tea." He held out an arm to usher her into the tiny little one room flat. "Sorry I'm not dressed, I was just... having a bit of a lie in." Molly nodded and gave him a small smile.

"It's okay, you don't have to make tea, I can't stay long. I just needed to..." Once again her sentence stopped without really ending, and John fought to be patient.

"Well, you can sit down at least. Here." He showed her to the little table in the corner of the room designated as "kitchen" and sat down opposite her. "So, what's on your mind?" He hadn't seen her in almost a year, and was surprised that she had anything that needed to be shared with him.

"I made a promise, a while ago," she started, "To a friend. They... they were scared, and sad, and asked me for help, and... Well, that part's done with, but now there's another part, and it's to do with you." John's heart rate had kicked up a notch. He thought he knew who she was talking about, but couldn't bring himself to hope that whatever she was about to say would somehow make him feel any better.

"He... Sherlock," she continued, "He gave me something, to give to you. When it was time." John's pulse was pounding in his ears. _God, please, anything,_ he thought, _whatever it is, I want it._ Molly looked almost heartbroken, and John knew his expression must have been telegraphing his desperation. "I really am very sorry, John," she breathed, not meeting his eyes, "for everything. I hope... Well, that's not important now. Here. This is for you." From in her purse, she pulled a slightly crumpled envelope. Written on the front, in blocky handwriting that was painfully familiar, was one word: JOHN. His hand was shaking when he took the letter from Molly. He couldn't seem to find any words.

"He thought about you," Molly said, "before he- before. I hope you can forgive him." She stood, and made her way to the door. John could only just barely stand to tear his eyes from the paper in his hands.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "thank you Molly." She looked sad and nervous again, and opened the door to go.

"If you... If you still want to talk to me, after. If you can- if you can stand it, let me know." With that final confusing farewell, she closed the door behind her, and left John alone. With the letter.


	2. An Unopened Letter (Day 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reads the letter Molly's given him, and learns the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cheated a bit and got prompts 1 and 2 at the same time, so this chapters flows directly from the previous one. It won't happen again, I promise!

John heard Molly's footsteps descend the stairs outside his flat, but couldn't bring himself to move. In his hands was the letter. The letter from Sherlock, given to Molly, and then kept for over a year and a half, until some signal that John couldn't fathom, at which time it was given to him. The envelope wasn't very thick. Whatever was contained therein could not be a long letter, which made sense, seeing how in the last few days before Sherlock- before the roof, the two men had been almost constantly in each other's company. He would not have had time to write some long missive, and John knew that it wouldn't have been his style even if he had. 

Fingers trembling, John turned the envelope in his hands, staring at the flap on the other side. It was one of the peel and stick envelopes that didn't require licking, and so was still sealed perfectly, even after so many months. Carefully, almost reverently, John caught his finger under the lip and tore. The paper gave easily, and he slipped out the single sheet from inside. It was a letter, written on both sides of the paper, addressed to John. He struggled to calm his breathing, and then read. 

_John,_

_If you are reading this, then plans A through D have failed, and I was left with no choice but to enact plan E. For that, I am truly sorry. Moriarty has been closing his web ever more tightly around me, and I fear that I may not have the time nor the opportunity to explain myself to you. Molly has been given very specific instructions, and two letters. I am relieved that this is the one you are reading, as the other was written for the possibility that even plan E was not successful, and would be far more painful than this one._

_Firstly, please know that it was never my intention to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact. When Moriarty told me that he would "burn the heart" out of me, I knew immediately that it was a threat against you. What I have done is to protect you, as you are, metaphorically of course, my heart. I wish I had the courage to tell you in person, but what must be done will be difficult enough without adding more incentive to stay. I am sorry._

John had to pause in reading for a moment, as the tears that had been welling in his eyes finally spilled over, and he had to blink them away to be able to see again. He had known that Sherlock must have faced something truly awful at the hands of Moriarty to push him to jump, but that John had been so spectacularly ignorant of Sherlock's feelings could only have added to the detective’s misery. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and continued reading. 

_I believe that it is Moriarty's intention, as the final part in his plan to discredit me entirely, to engineer my suicide, most probably in as public and sensational a manner as possible. If you are reading this it means that I was left with no choice but to play right into his hands. He likely threatened me with your death should I not comply, and it seems probable that my continued existence would put you in constant danger. I would say that I am sorry for putting you in harm's way, but it would be untrue, as it would mean that I am sorry to have met you, and I am not._

_This is the portion of this letter I find most difficult to write. I do not know how long I will have been gone by the time you read this. I know that Moriarty's web is vast and tangled, and will take all of my skill and attention to unravel. I hope that you will understand why I have done what I did, and I hope that you will not hate me for it._

_I am alive, John._

John let out a choking gasp as he read the sentence, his hand flying to cover his mouth, and he plowed ahead, burning to know what Sherlock meant, to know what was going on. 

_Molly has helped me engineer what will appear to be my death. Any who are watching, including whatever number of hired killers there are who have been set upon you, will believe me dead, thus ensuring your safety. I wish that I could tell you, but you and I both know that you would not be able to sham grief well enough to convince any but the most imbecilic of assassins. I will leave, and I will hunt down each and every person who knows of the order to kill you, and I will do so with as much expediency as possible. If Molly has given you this letter, then I have succeeded in my task, and will be home soon._

_I do not expect you to forgive me. That is not the purpose of this letter, to beg for forgiveness. I want you to know the truth, however, and that is that I hope dearly that you might be willing to see me. I do not know what condition I will be in, nor how long it will have been since I saw you last, but it is my intention to meet with you on the day that you receive this letter. I will be at 221B at 20:00. I hope you will be as well._

_Love (because there is no sense in denying it by this point),_

_Sherlock Holmes_

John was paralysed where he sat. His breath was coming in short pants, and he was distantly aware that he was hyperventilating. Sherlock was alive. John couldn’t believe it. It didn’t seem real, just reading it in a letter written over a year and a half ago, but there it was. Molly wouldn’t have given it to him if it wasn’t so. A year and a half of mourning, of blaming himself for not being there for his friend, of dragging himself through life, and it hadn’t even been real, because Sherlock was alive. 

Sherlock was alive, and John was going to strangle him. 

  
**Tomorrow's Prompt:** A Terrible Kiss


End file.
